“I just chugged an entire carton of Ben & Jerry’s while watching myself in the mirror. I’m so full.”
Ryan hit send and stared at his phone. He’d seen Rob online a moment ago, he knew he’d be thee.
His reply came within a minute.
There he is. How full?
Ryan's breath caught. He typed back one-handed, the other still resting on the curve of his belly: Stuffed. Just finished a whole carton of ice cream on top of everything else.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Send me proof.
Ryan's whole body responded to those three words in a way that no amount of food ever quite could on its own. This -this -was the other hunger. The one that lived just underneath the first. The desire to flaunt his gluttony.
He propped his phone up on the bedside table, leant back against the pillows, and pressed record.
He didn't speak at first. He just let the camera see him; shirt pushed up on his gut, round and full, rising and falling with his breathing. He got his hands under it, lifted the whole heavy hang of it, and let it drop. The wobble that rolled through his gut was deeply satisfying. He did it again, watching the screen with heavy-lidded eyes, feeling the movement ripple through all of him.
He tilted the phone lower, making sure Rob could see the full shelf of it spreading across his thighs, the bulge in his shorts... Then he gave his belly a firm pat. Felt the dense, stuffed solidity of it and let out a low, deliberately slow exhale directly into the camera.
He stopped recording. Sent it.
Three dots appear on the screen within seconds.
Christ… Ryan!
He grinned, flushed and breathless. The next message came.
You're getting SO big.
"I know," Ryan murmured aloud, to himself, to the mirror on the wall. His reflection agreed. Sprawled and heavy and present in a way he'd spent years learning to want instead of fight.
Rob sent: How much did you gain this month?
Six pounds, Ryan typed.
Six pounds in a month. And you're still not satisfied are you?
It wasn't really a question. Rob knew him.
Not even close, Ryan replied.
Good. You shouldn't be. Then: Film another one. Stand up this time. I want to see how it hangs when you're on your feet.
Ryan stood slowly, feeling every pound of himself shift and resettle, and the belly dropped forward, heavy and low, and he genuinely had to close his eyes for a moment just to collect himself. He set up the phone again. Stood square in front of the mirror this time so Rob would get both angles. The real him and the reflected him, twice as much.
He pressed record. Reached up with both hands and gripped his chest, then slid his palms slowly downward over the full swell of his gut, letting the camera follow the journey. At the base of his belly he pushed gently inward, felt the stuffed resistance of it, and made a sound in his throat that he didn't bother to edit out before sending.
Rob's reply was almost instant.
You are absolutely obscene and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Ryan laughed dropped back onto the bed, one hand resting comfortingly on his belly, stroking it as he replied.
400, he typed. That's where I'm going.
A longer pause this time. Then:
I'm going to enjoy watching you get there. Every single pound.
Ryan set the phone face-down on his chest, felt it rise and fall with his breathing, felt the tight warmth of a stomach pushed past comfort into something richer, and stared at the ceiling with the particular, buzzing, full-body satisfaction of a man who knows exactly what he wants and is, slowly and deliberately and with great pleasure, becoming it.
He felt like he was sinking into the mattress, it was accepting his weight with what he could only describe as generosity. He sat propped up against the headboard, legs stretched out, belly resting heavily across his lap in a way that felt almost obscenely comfortable. He was still shirtless. He had no intention of changing that.
His phone was warm in his hand.
Still up? he typed to Rob.
For you? Always. How are you feeling?
Ryan considered the question seriously, the way Rob always made him feel his answers deserved to be considered.
Tight, he wrote. Full. Heavy. A pause, then, because it was Rob and Rob always wanted the whole truth: Really turned on.
Tell me.
Ryan shifted against the pillows, feeling everything move with him - the slow, weighted settle of his gut, the way his whole body felt dense and warm and somehow more than it had that morning. He rested his free hand on the highest point of his belly, fingers spread wide, and began to type.
I'm on the bed. Belly's so full it's just sitting there in my lap. I keep pressing on it just to feel how solid it is.
Good boy, Rob replied, and the two words hit Ryan somewhere low and immediate. Keep going.
It feels bigger than last week. I think it IS bigger. The waistband was tight all day at work and I kept - I kept thinking about it. Thinking about what you'd say if you could see me in my work clothes now.
What do you think I'd say?
Ryan's jaw tightened pleasantly. He knew exactly what Rob would say. Rob had a gift for it - a specific, observational, based-on-fact praise that Ryan had never been able to get enough of.
You'd tell me I was outgrowing myself, Ryan typed. That I needed new trousers.
You do need new trousers. I've been watching you need new trousers for two months. Then: Film yourself. Sitting exactly how you are right now.
Ryan propped the phone against his knee, angled upward, and pressed record. He didn't perform this time - didn't wobble or push or lift. He just sat there, still and heavy and unguarded, and let Rob see the reality of him: the belly doming upward between the V of his thighs and spilling wide to either side, the slow movement of his breathing, skin stretched full. 30 seconds. He sent it without watching it back.
The wait was its own kind of pleasure.The “online” status at the top of the chat. Knowing Rob was watching him right now, admiring, observing.
Ryan. A pause that lasted long enough to be deliberate. You have got so much bigger.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Yeah?
Your belly is enormous. Do you understand that? Do you actually see it when you look in the mirror or have you just got used to it?
The question burrowed into him. He looked down at himself, really looked, and tried to see what Rob saw. The sheer size of it. The way it dominated him, commanded the whole geography of his body, soft and heavy and relentlessly there.
Sometimes I can't believe it's mine, he admitted. And then I touch it and I can't believe it took this long.
How much does it hang down when you stand up?
Ryan stood. Felt the shift, the drop, the forward pull of all that weight finding its new centre. He looked in the wardrobe mirror.
A lot, he typed, slightly breathless. More than last month.
I want a number on the scale in the morning. First thing. Then, after a beat: And I don’t want you to eat before you weigh. I want the real number.
Something about the instruction made Ryan feel almost light-headed. This was the part that undid him every time - not just the praise, not just the attention, but being directed. Being told what to do with his own body by someone who wanted it to be bigger, who was invested in the number climbing, who would be watching and waiting and pleased.
He sat back down on the bed. Heavier somehow, despite nothing having changed.
He scrolled up the chat…
You have got so much bigger.
He said it aloud this time. Quietly, to himself in the empty room.
His own voice saying it did something to him that he hadn't anticipated. He said it again, and his hand began to move slowly, with intention, exploring every inch of himself the way Rob would if he were there. The roundness of his belly. The soft, generous sides. The deep warmth underneath where it hung lowest and heaviest.
So much bigger.
His pulse was loud in his ears now. He wobbled himself gently, a small, deliberate motion so that he could feel the ripple travel through all of him. His breathing grew heavy and his right hand went down into his shorts.
His free hand gripped the fat at his side. He thought about the scale tomorrow. The number climbing. Rob's response, whatever it would be… exacting and warm and unbearably specific.
The energy in his body was enormous now, gathering, building, pulsing.
He thought: 300 pounds of me.
He thought: not enough.
He thought: more
The thought burst entirely into something wordless and powerful as a long, shuddering wave of orgasm moved through him from his gut outward, leaving him breathless and heavy and still.
He lay there. One hand still holding his dick as the orgasm subsided, the other resting on the top of his gut.
Feeling it rise.
Feeling it fall.
Smiling in the dark. Knowing tomorrow would bring more.